A bigger table indeed....

You don't choose your family.

They are God's gift to you,

as you are to them.

 - The Most Reverend Desmond Mpilo Tutu,

Enthronement Address (1986)

It's Thanksgiving, that most American of holidays, so we pause to reflect on our blessings, revel in the company of relatives and friends and rediscover the true sense of our abundance: the love of those whose presence in our lives makes ours the unique - and uniquely meaningful - journeys that they are.  In this spirit, I offer both this meditation on the traditional Thanksgiving gathering and a suggestion to consider an evolved version of it.

Thanksgiving is the Booker Family holiday: for more than half a century now, I've been journeying to an annual gathering of the tribe, usually somewhere in the Boston area, but occasionally to a farther flung outpost like Atlanta or even in my now home state, New Jersey.  (This year it happens to be on Cape Cod again, but likely without the huge bonfire that so amazed and delighted us at last year's gathering ... but I digress....)

As a child, this was my typically once yearly opportunity to meet and mingle with my father's side of the family, a raucous, loving bunch who had big hearts, big mouths and big laughs.  They were so populous in the small hamlet of West Medford, Massachusetts, that it seemed like every other house belonged to some relative or close family friend.  West Medford, or "Meh-fuh" as it's pronounced (I was explicitly instructed never to phonate the D's), was a magical place that revolved around my grandmother's home at 39 Jerome Street.  To the side of her garage was a pathway to Uncle Charlie's house on the next street over and around the corner was my Aunt Alice's home just past my disabled cousin Jimmy Lassiter's home, and so on.

What a colorful collection of modest souls, starting with my grandmother, the late Carrie Hoyt Booker Frye.  (Just so you know, somehow, she was a Furr, which is ostensibly a branch of my family that has an even longer history in the area ... but, again, I digress....)  Apparently my grandfather James - whom I never met - was a bit of a rapscallion with whom she had 13 children - only 8 of whom survived to adulthood - and then parted ways.  (Yeah, I know, how do you have 13 kids with someone before you judge him unworthy, but isn't this the kind of mystery that makes families so fun?)  Some years later she met and married a wonderful man named Harold Frye, one of the sweetest, gentlest souls I've ever known.  From him I learned two things primarily: first, that one didn't need to be overtly forceful to have great influence - it was his quiet, commanding way that I'll always remember as he was so much a man's man but without the need to show it - and, second, that the role of a spouse is to be inseparably and lovingly committed to and focused on one's beloved - as, for Grandpa Harold, the sun rose and set on his beloved Carrie so much so that even her rather boisterous children would stand down in his presence (but, again, I digress...).

From my grandmother, I learned the art of the matriarch, how a grand dame presides over her brood with an iron will and yet with a sweet - but not too sweet - way about her.  And from her children, I learned a great deal about life, including that it's to be lived fully and joyfully with just a touch of rancor among relatives to balance out the overabundance of love.  Unlike my mother's side of the family, which featured some lifelong feuds among siblings, etc., the Bookers got on each other's nerves occasionally but loved one another unconditionally, an unshakable bond that has left an indelible impression on me (even as it attenuates in my and younger generations ... but again, I digress...).  Squabbles from time to time but love always.

Apparently my Aunt Alyce (who lived to be 99 years old) was a seamstress, a gift that I discovered during my college years when she custom-made some items for me that I'll always treasure in memory.  The eldest boy was my Uncle Frankie, who, among his many talents, was a contractor who rebuilt many of the modest homes in the neighborhood and spent a fair portion of the year in his 'retirement' as an itinerant golfer in Florida.  Then came Uncle Charlie, who, I was told, was never quite right after the War (as in WWII).  (Let's just say that rarely has a more colorful character walked this earth ... because if we say more than that, then we'll have to acknowledge that for every one of his real world accomplishments - and there were several meaningful ones - there are multiple incidents and stories that are much funnier and more lovable in hindsight.)  After this came Uncle Robbie, a sweet soul who became the antecedent of today's Uber driver after he retired from his main career (about which I can no longer remember).  (Let's just say that Uncle Robbie was also one of the sweetest men I've ever known ... and one of the slowest-driving, too!)  And then there was Aunt Gertie, a vibrant, jubilant soul whose presence invariably meant that laughter was imminent and sure to be infectious.  (Aunt Gertie went to visit a friend in Albany, New York, one weekend and didn't come back to West Medford for over 20 years - yeah, each one of 'em had some fascinating stories to tell ... but, again and lovingly, I digress....)  Then came my father, Billy, who was one of two siblings to leave the fold and move away from the family seat, which is why I grew up in Detroit.  (Let's just say that love and the passage of time afford me the luxury of wistful and happy remembrance of my father, because our time together during my adolescence was memorable for all the wrong reasons, which, thankfully, pales now in comparison to the lessons that he taught me - most accidental - and for which I thank him daily still.)  Then came the baby of the family, my Aunt Mary, who, among many gifts in addition to her endearing, quick and hearty laugh, had the most delightfully prominent New England accent, was the second adult in my life other than my (paternal) grandmother to remarry successfully and, it turns out, could drive a school bus, which she did on multiple occasions while ferrying the family down to visit relatives on the Cape.

(You're thinking that I just recounted seven colorful elders, but what about the eighth who survived to adulthood, right?  Well, it turns out that my father's younger brother James Ketell Booker didn't quite make it all the way to adulthood and died when he was fourteen, long before my time.  This being said, my uncle's legacy is with me every day: yes, people, that's actually what the "K" is for in my initials - my middle name is "Kettel" after my uncle - but, it turns out, as you may have noticed, that my father and my grandmother spelled it differently.  One of the many, many cherished memories of my youth was listening to the two of them argue about who spelled it right: a contretemps that my grandmother won, of course, because, as she pointed out with unassailable logic, she came up with the name in the first place.  Though he had to stand down with his mother, my dad never did quite admit that my very name represents a misspelling, a distinction that makes me chuckle every time I think of it ... but, again and also lovingly, I digress....)

As you can likely intuit, I could tell wonderfully crazy stories about these wonderfully crazy people whose influence is so indelible - as a family's should be - but I do so as a prelude to this point: that when we gathered to celebrate this holiday, all 30+ of us including cousins and various other types of relations, there were always a few non-family members at the celebration as well.  As I've aged, I've come to realize that it is perhaps the greatest lesson that my family, collectively, taught me: that as much as we congregated annually to celebrate our loving bond, that fealty was always expansive and benevolent enough to be extended to others.

Ours was always a bigger table, invariably welcoming of others who were instantly accorded an honored place amongst our merry band simply because they were esteemed and treasured by one of us.  Yes, my father's family taught me that the true nature of this collective relationship and of this holiday: that loved ones are related both by blood and by heart and that the greater the both of these the larger and more mutually reinforcing and beneficial the affiliation.  I can't tell you how some of those folks came to join our extended family back in the day; I can simply say that they were as welcomed and honored and treasured as anyone else in the room, an unusual and endearing affiliative gift which they noted often and always gratefully.

So, as you prepare to celebrate this holiday, whom will you invite to your own bigger table?  I can only share my experience, which is that the wider you open your arms, the more love will be in the room.  Accordingly, I hope that you invite someone(s) into the bosom of your brood as the Bookers have done for generations.  In so doing, I also pray that you reap the incidental but incredibly real and meaningful benefit thereof: the more love you extend, the more love will be felt, reveled in and shared.

May your table be bigger in direct proportion to your heart and may the blessings that flow from your association with the diverse and unique group of souls who populate your path in life lead you to treasure every step and every moment so that this and every day becomes a celebration of your gratitude for the Grace in and of your life.

39 Jerome Street is no more, but Carrie Booker Frye's legacy is alive and well - and growing - several generations on.  May your extended family experience what mine has lived joyfully so that you, too, come to appreciate this enhanced sacred celebration of life and love both in the moment and throughout time eternal.  It is truly a gift to be thankful for each and every day....

Happy Thanksgiving from me and my crazy-wonderful extended family, the Bookers!

For as long as I could remember, I had two really great stories

planted within my heart, stories that not everyone has.  The first

was the story of a family that loved me.  They spent time with me,

told me that I mattered, that I was adored, that I could be anything

I dreamed of being - and that they were for me.  Home was a sanctuary.

It was belonging.  It was a soft place for my soul to find rest.  Second, I had

a story about God.  In my God story, God was real, God was good, and I was

fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of this very good God. ... It was and

is a beautiful and (I believe) true story, one that for most of my life has yielded the

awareness that I was never alone and that God was always present.

- John Pavlovitz, A Bigger Table:

Building Messy, Authentic, and Hopeful Spiritual Community (2017)